


Young Blood

by spookywoods



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Comedy, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-War, The Quibbler, Wizard Olympics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 00:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18954058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods
Summary: To:  Xenophilius Lovegood, Editor,The QuibblerAttached is my written editorial, as discussed, on my takeaways from WWOG. Thank you for thesevere hand crampsopportunity to write about my experience.Sincerely,George Weasley





	Young Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me in such a rush and I haven't been able to let it go for months. Slight warning for post-war bereavement in the first few paragraphs. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you to [Gem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inevitabledrarry) and [Kristina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristinabird) for the beta and support!

To: Xenophilius Lovegood, Editor, _The Quibbler_

Attached is my written editorial, as discussed, on my takeaways from WWOG. Thank you for the ~~severe hand cramps~~ opportunity to write about my experience.

Sincerely,

George Weasley

 

PART I

~~The fallout of the Great War is a grey streak across all life in the wizarding world. Scratch that, I’m being dramatic.~~

The biggest obstacle we face in a post-war world is learning to face ourselves. Sure, we love blaming ~~those bloody fascist arseholes~~ those we consider responsible for the death of friends and loved ones. For some of us, it isn’t enough seeing the culprits brought to justice; there will always be a gaping hole in our lives where those lost used to exist.

You feel it in everything you do. You see them in every shadow, feel them around every corner, hear their laughter in the echoes of your own. It gets to the point where you don’t even allow yourself a rare laugh because you can’t bear to hear them. Every step you take is a step they’ll never get. So you don’t go anywhere. It gets to be too much. You can barely look yourself in the mirror without feeling the immense shame of having not been able to save them.

You saved yourself, didn’t you?

The ~~pushy git~~ mind healer calls it survivor's guilt. He’s helped me realise that one of the things I struggle with on the daily is dealing with my immeasurable guilt at having survived. I told him it was mostly that my once bottomless stomach now knows the fallout of indigestion. But he insisted it’s this survivor whish wash, and the more he shouted it at me, the more I started to think, “Well, yeah ~~you pretentious nonce~~ , my brother died and I lived.”

That hurts.

I’m not sure there will ever be a time when it doesn’t hurt.

It’s sort of a new feeling for me, this guilt thing. I’ve been reckless, thoughtless, feckless, a loose cannon with no real respect for authority, rules, and at times—public decency (Can I say, Florean Fortescue is a saint, and I’m still quite grateful he didn’t press charges for ~~all those times~~ that one time I apparated into the shop without my trousers). There’s lots of things I’ve done for which I should’ve felt a tinge of regret. I’ve asked for forgiveness more times than I can count and I’m not sure I’ve ever actually really felt remorse.

But this is the first time I’ve not done anything wrong...besides continuing to live. And it’s the first time I’ve ever felt guilty. It’s the first time in my life that I haven’t had someone finish my sentences and support all my crazy ideas. Sometimes I think my brother was more me than I ever was. Sometimes I think he deserved to live and I—

But it isn’t about deserved, is it? ~~Rowena’s tits, this wasn’t supposed to be about me~~ Our world has been burned to the ground and we’ve been forced to rise through the ash and rebuild. Things will never be the same.

They can’t be the same.

Maybe that’s why the Council of Magical Sport and Fitness and Fettle or COMSAFAF ~~(say it aloud, I dare ya)~~ decided we needed to bring back the Mageía Olympiakoí, or cleverly renamed World Wizarding Olympic Games....WWOG ~~(again how do they name these things—)~~

It wasn’t something that really caught on in my house. At least, not at first. My sister was off training with the Holyhead Harpies and being a general ~~pain in my arse~~ badarse. You’d think I would have heard about the games from her, but no. It was actually my good mate Lee Jordan who sauntered into the shop ~~and proved himself to be the braggadocious berk he is~~ and told me about his latest job offer: to be the voice of the games on the British wireless.

“The Olympics? That’s the Muggle sport where they twirl about on a bar in the air a dozen times until their brains get scrambled, then try to land?”

“That’s it,” Lee said. “But we used to have it too, long before the Ministry even existed.”

Cue a long-winded rant with several dozen tangents, one of which detailed—quite explicitly (“The book I bought has illustrations—”) —a series of tournaments where all the participants competed in the nude.

“Alright, Lee.” I stopped tinkering and dropped the exploding eyeball prototype on the counter. It splattered all over Lee’s new dragonhide trousers. I grinned. “You have my full and undivided attention.”

“I think you should compete,” Lee said as we both watched the white goo slide down the front of his legs.

“I’m listening.”

Lee cast a _Scourgify,_ ~~to my utter pleasure, _it failed and_~~ then went on to describe the myriad of events, all of which sounded more ridiculous by the second. I was intrigued. But alas, nothing really could tempt me. ~~Apparently, the new iteration of the games would have strict attire regulations.~~ Apart from going to work each day, it was hard for me to see myself doing anything so wild as entering a historic sporting competition, especially without _him._

My thoughts must have been written on my face because Lee adopted a solemn look.

“What?”

He eyed me. “Ginny’s signed up for three of the events.”

“She would,” I shook my head.

He bit his ~~stupidly perfect lower~~ lip. “I think you should do it. You know. For _him._ ”

“I can’t.”

“You know, he’d be fuming if he knew you gave up the opportunity to wreak havoc and mayhem…” Lee eyed me. “...on such a grand scale.”

“Where can I sign up?”

The truth is: I had no idea what I was signing up for.

None of us did.

-/-

Eight months later found me ~~cursing Lee Jordan’s name and vowing to hex him until his~~ in the best shape of my life as I prepared for the Six Mountain Squaffle, The 100-meter Levitation, and the Nineteen Lap Water Top Tip-Toe.

Being a part of the England squad was a ~~painstaking exercise in refraining from murder~~ bittersweet reminder of all the things that are worth fighting for.

“Gin!”

My voice rang out and echoed obnoxiously through the large lobby of the participant dormitories. My sister and ~~her obnoxious harem of mindless fanatics~~ a few others turned to stare at me as I lay sprawled across my six battered trunks and four Bottomless Bags of Buffoonery (Wizard Patent Pending, check your local store next Christmas!).

“George?” My sister’s mouth dropped. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t Mum tell you? I’m here to make the family proud.”

“No...”

“No, I can’t make the family proud?” I grinned. “That’s awful misanthropic of you to say.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “I meant no she didn’t tell me. What events—”

But she was cut off by the onslaught of more arrivals, particularly Puddlemere United’s own ~~dashing, tight arse, single-minded~~ skipper, Oliver Wood, followed by the Magpies Chaser, ~~stunning goddess that she is,~~ Angelina Johnson.

“Wood, what in Salazar’s sack are you doing at the England camp?” I shouted.

“Yeah,” Ron pushed through to the front of the group. “Shouldn’t you be down the road with the Scots?”

Oliver Wood smiled at me. His dark, thick lashes framed his eyes in such a way ~~that made him look like he might be capable of advanced thought~~ that brought out the intensity of their hazel colour. “What, dun tell me ya dun want me here?”

“That’s exactly what—” Angelina began, but I cut her off.

“Why _are_ you here, Oli?”

He glanced around as if looking for something or someone. “My mum’s dad was English. Therefore, I’m allowed to compete for England.”

Angie crossed her arms. “Are you sure it isn’t because you pissed off all the trainers in the Scotland camp?”

Oliver shook his head. “They didn’t have what it takes to win. And I came here to win.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Ginny stepped up and grabbed his shoulder. They shared a look that made me cringe. There was an odd familiarity between them, and my curiosity began soaring higher than ~~my cock at a~~ the latest Firebolt. Maybe it was from playing in the British Quidditch League. Or maybe there was something else to it.

I narrowed my eyes. “I supposed we could use you in a few events.”

“A few!” Oliver barked. “I’m in for all eleven broom-present competitions!”

Angie met my gaze. “Right,” she said. “You’d sign up for anything that puts a bit of wood between your legs.”

“S’nothing else like it in the world,” Oliver winked. His eyes caught something at the end of the hall and he excused himself.

Ron choked on his breath as he stumbled toward me. He followed Oliver’s retreat with a look of both bewilderment and heated admiration ~~and if I didn’t know better I’d say his eyes fell to Oli’s arse as he walked off.~~ Ron blinked and asked if I had a roommate yet.

The question hit me hard, and I know he didn’t mean for it to hurt me, but it did. Could it have been the first time in my entire life when I had to think about pairing off in a room with someone other than _him_? ~~Fuck me, I wanted to bolt and never look back.~~ I raised a brow.

“Any room with you and Harry?”

Paling, my brother shook his head and slowly lowered his eyes to the floor. “Sorry, mate.”

Inevitably, I had to wait for all the others to pair up and receive their assignments. By the time they wandered off, it was just me and ~~the tall pointy git whose third favourite pastime after refurbishing charmed antique furniture and regurgitating racist propaganda seemed to be insulting Weasleys~~ Draco Malfoy. I glanced behind him at his pile of five trunks and two weekender bags, no doubt full of ~~useless poncy shite~~ necessary items to rival my own belongings.

When his grey eyes met mine, I felt his unease just as much as I saw it; but Malfoy’s face didn’t contort in disgust. I rather think he was embarrassed, maybe even ashamed, and it wasn’t directed towards me. He turned away.

“On the ticket for the main events?” I leaned in and whispered to him as the porter scribbled down our names and handed us our room assignment. Malfoy blinked back at me. “I myself am only up for three: Six Mountain Squaff—”

“You don’t have to do that,” Malfoy said, narrowing his eyes.

I blinked. “What’s that?”

“Pretend to be cordial. I don’t need your attempts at inane conversation and I certainly do not want your piteous courtesy.”

“Keep your wand holstered! Merlin,” I shook my head. I didn’t pity him, that was for sure. I only wanted to make an uncomfortable situation at least bearable. “I was curious, is all. Wasn’t proposing marriage.” I eyed him and smirked. “Yet.”

His cheeks took on a pink twinge and he hurried forward into the hallway. While the situation couldn’t have gotten much worse, a part of me came alive at the thought of being able ~~to chip away at Malfoy with wry and inappropriate comments~~ to see someone like him in a new light.

“Oi! Malfoy,” I called. He turned around, a nervous twitch in one eye. “I have night terrors,” I admitted, gulping. “You know, from the war.” He cast his eyes downward and nodded. I licked my lips. “The only way I’ve found I can avoid them is to sleep in the buff. Hope that’s alright?” I brushed past him and drank in the look of sheer horror spread across his features. At any rate, I didn’t think it couldn’t get much better than that.

He caught up with me just outside our assigned quarters and shot me a glare. He opened the door and stepped inside, turning back and arching a brow. “I’ll have to try that method for dealing with mine then too,” he smirked. “We’ll be quite the pair, naked and screaming in the middle of the night.”

I couldn’t help the riotous smile that took over my face as I followed him into the small sitting area. “Naked and screaming?” I laughed. “Now there’s my autobiography title right there.”

Malfoy sprawled out on the sofa. “I demand fifteen percent royalties.”

“Sure,” I nodded. “If you write the jacket review. Filling it up with only scathing comments and a few colourful remarks about my family.”

“No chance, Weasley,” he drawled. “There’s only one person who could do that sort of thing justice.”

“Who’s that?”

“Dolores Umbridge. Perhaps you could invite her to write the review using a lavatory seat in lieu of parchment.”

“Stop that,” I said, unable to keep from laughing.

“Stop what?”

“Making me think you’re not half bad, Malfoy.”

He smiled, and we proceeded to unpack our ~~baggage~~ belongings in silence.

I couldn’t stop myself from thinking it wouldn’t be so bad after all.


End file.
